Falling to Pieces
by Saphia
Summary: Everyone suffered during the plague. But the aristocracy of Dunwall remained untouched it seemed. They all schemed against one another, and general discord reined amongst the elite. Their downfall is inevitable. (Takes place before and during the events of Dishonoured) [Image (c) Eran Fowler]


**Chapter One – Portrait of a Lady**

The air was muggy - the acrid stench of 'plague' filled her nostrils. The young lady guided a gloved hand into her purse and pulled out a small handkerchief, lifting it to her nose. The swaying of the coach as it travelled along Kaldwin's bridge and the clunking of the connecting rails only aided in increasing her nausea.

She pulled back the drape over the carriage window and peered out at the buildings that lined the bridge. The south end was derelict, save for a dimmed light in a window here and there. Patrols were unusually heavy here and flood lights beamed down from above. The coach slowed to a halt at the main security checkpoint.

"Darlene."

The voice broke her from her reverie and her head turned to the woman sat opposite her. She was met by a scowl.

"If you're quite done daydreaming - find out your credentials. The guards will need to see them."

Darlene turned to the opposite window to see a brute of a man. He tipped the rim of his cap up further onto his head.

"Miladies," he nodded a show of respect to the pair, and taking the papers offered to him. "Lady Clemens and Lady Bouchard," he looked from Darlene and then to the older woman. "Master Sokolov is expecting you."

The guard handed back their papers and then signalled down the bridge to one of his colleagues. He then gave them a nod of farewell and waved them on as the bridge descended, granting them passage.

* * *

The coach ground to a halt and the compartment door was opened by their personal guard. Lady Bouchard stepped out, taking the hand offered to her by the guard, followed closely by Darlene.

"Thank you, David," the side of her lips lifted into a slight smile, and he reciprocated the gesture.

The wind blew ferociously as the trio made their way up the staircase to the entrance of Sokolov's safe house. She hugged her cloak tighter to her frame, pulling her hood down to protect her eyes from the sting of the sea salt that was carried in the wind. She tilted her head back, staring out at what could be seen of the sky between the densely built architecture. Seagulls flew overhead, squawking to one another, and the glow of the sunset illuminating them.

"Welcome miladies," the guard on duty greeted them at the door, gesturing for the party to come indoors.

"Thank you kindly," Lady Bouchard smiled widely walking briskly into the foyer, unbuttoning her cloak and handing over her gloves to one of two maids who stood to attend the ladies. "Such beautiful paintings, Darlene, don't you think so?"

"Yes, mother," she muttered, glancing at the paintings that hung across the walls as she turned in her own effects.

"Master Sokolov will be with you shortly, milady," the young maids scurrying off.

Anton Sokolov was best known for his position as Royal Physician and a natural philosopher, but he also enjoyed in the delights of the arts. Darlene's father, William, had paid an exorbitant amount in fees to have her portrait painted, it wouldn't be the first time the Bouchard's had done such a thing. The Bouchard estate had its own gallery dedicated to the images of each and every family member. It was tradition. A tradition she was expected to uphold.

"It's an honour to have you here, Lady Bouchard!" Darlene drew her attention from the artwork to see Sokolov, greeting her mother in an almost sickeningly sweet manner. It was enough to send her mother into a fit of laughter as he bowed lowly, clasping her hand in his.

"Please, call me Lady Ida, Anton," she smiled widely before his eyes trailed past her to her daughter.

"And here is the lovely Darlene," he beckoned her forward and she did so. He was a very dishevelled old man, his hair and beard unkempt, making her believe he hadn't seen a barber in many months. His suit was worn, but clean which he must have had his maids to thank for. He eyed her figure up and down, before gently placing his hand to her chin, examining her face from every which angle. She pulled back from his touch on an impulse and turned her gaze to the floor. "Excuse my forwardness, milady. I'm an artist; I merely prefer to examine my subjects beforehand." He turned to Lady Ida and signalled for one of his maids. "Lady Ida, my maid will gladly escort you to the dining hall for dinner whilst I carry out the painting, I presume it will take some hours at least."

"Ah, of course, I'm absolutely famished!" the lady chippered, following the maid up the staircase opposite and towards the dining room.

"Your mother seems to be in high spirits?" Sokolov mused as the pair walked along the hallway, glass cases exhibiting various inventions, piquing the woman's interest.

"Not any more than usual," she replied, as they descended into a large, floodlit work area. Large blocks of stone towered over them and a large wooden easel stood in the centre, a blank canvas resting upon it. Across the room was a wide cushioned stool. "Do I sit?" she motioned to it and he nodded in response. Her steps echoed in the otherwise empty space as the heels of her boots connected with the concrete floor. The stool creaked under her weight as she settled into position.

"Now, hmm…" he looked round the canvas at her, head tilted. "Sit angular, but face me – that's it. Hands in your lap – thank you, milady."

He turned to the adjacent work table and began mixing paints. "So…your father is in good health?"

She turned her eyes to his hands, focusing in on his work. "As good as an aristocrats is during the plague," she was sure he missed the hint of sarcasm behind her words, if not he was rather good at hiding it.

"Well as long as you're making use of my elixirs, there shan't be anything to fear," he gave her a crooked smile as he finished his palette and got to work.

* * *

The hours he worked on it were filled with a quiet void, and Darlene grew restless until he advised her on finding something to fixate on.

"Your work is forever amazing, Sokolov," her mother smiled, examining the portrait. Darlene pulled her eyes away from the wall to the pair. "Darling, come see," she beckoned her over. Darlene brushed off her clothes; with how long she'd sat she was surprised dust hadn't settled on her. Her knees were stiff and she almost fell head first as she tried to balance herself. Taking small steps over to the easel she leant her hand against its frame, leaning round to see the final work.

"It's almost complete just a few finishing touches here and there -"

"It's exquisite, Sokolov," Darlene's gaze never left the portrait, fingers traced it lightly – never touching - afraid to smudge the paint strokes.

He had painted her against a dark background, the only darker feature against the backdrop being her raven hair and alabaster skin contrasted sharply against it. Her maid was kind enough to help fashion her tresses into a bun. Her fringe was side swept and shorter strands that strayed, framed her face. Her eyes were pale, but he had emphasised their colour with an extraordinary shade…like the dazzling colour of refined whale oil. It almost made her chuckle. Her nose was small, lips pale and heart-shaped. Her blue tunic made of the finest materials her family could afford only emphasised her eyes, it lay off her shoulders, and was trimmed with soft brown wolfhound fur. Delicate lace sleeves trailed down her forearms, pooling onto the ruffles of her tunic that lay over fawn trousers. Pale hands rest on one another in her lap, a single wedding band on her finger. Darlene wasn't fond of decorating her hands with rings. It only heeded in attracting attention to her elongated fingers.

"Well then, I'm glad you favour it Lady Clemens," he squinted at a spot on the portrait, before turning to the two ladies. "I'll send it by courier in a few days, I'm sure you've already organised a spot for it?" he chuckled, ushering them to the foyer.

"Indeed," Darlene smiled awkwardly, glancing at her mother.

Ida adjusted her cloak as they made their way back to the coach. "I'm sure Charles will love to see it. We must have you two for dinner when it arrives."

Oh… her husband. Lord Charles Clemens. The man she was "destined" to marry as soon as she reached womanhood. He was wealthy and a prominent figure in Gristol's aristocracy. There need not have been any other reason for her parents to play matchmaker for them. Charismatic and a man who knew his way around politics, he could twist the most prudent of people around his finger and make any woman fall head over heels for him. She would concur. She fell head over heels in love with him.

But that was _then_.

This was _now_.

"I don't think he would want to trouble himself with something as trivial as a painting, mother." Darlene leant against the sill of the coach window, her head resting on her knuckles.

"Don't be so absurd! I'm sure he wouldn't mind taking some time from his work." Her mother's eyes lit up, Darlene could almost see the cogs turning in that scheming brain of hers. "Your father and I could hold a little party for you two! You two make such a lovely couple-"

The young woman gazed out of the window, allowing her mother to trail off in one-sided conversation as she made plans. A 'little' party with a 'few' guests – by her mother's definition - meant more of a congregation of the whole of the aristocracy of Dunwall (or what was left of it). Any chance to show off her family's worth. Darlene and Charles' fourth year of marriage would be marked in the month of harvest. He was considerably older than her when they were wed: eighteen and twenty-nine respectively. But she was twenty-one now. _Society_ expected her to be a mother by now.

The journey back to the estate district was thankfully a short one, the coach halting at the Clemens estate. "Have a goodnight, mother," Darlene ducked out of the coach, stepping out onto the quiet street.

"You too darling, do give Charles my love," her mother smiled out of the coach window, sitting back as the coach rolled off down the street. She watched as it left her view around the corner.

"Lady Clemens?"

Light illuminated the dark, abandoned street, a shadow cast by a figure. Darlene turned to the steps behind her to see one of her maids holding the door open. She smiled up to her, pulling at her cloak as she ascended to the estate entrance.

"I hope your trip was a pleasant one?" the young maids name was Astrid. She was a pale, freckled girl not yet out of her teens. Despite her plain features her fiery red hair and green eyes were striking.

"Yes. Sokolov did a wonderful job," the lady handed her cloak and gloves over to her maid. "Is Charles home?"

Astrid placed her lady's effects in the under stairs cupboard. "I'm afraid not ma'am. Word was sent from the Pendleton estate that he will be there until the early hours. Work matters, I suspect."

Darlene nodded slightly; she turned to the table there in the foyer, looking over letters that had been delivered during her day out. Seemed her husband had not acknowledged them or had been out equally as long as she. "Please could you call down to the kitchens for something to eat, Astrid? I'm positively starving. I haven't eaten since this morning."

"Yes, milady," she curtsied respectively, rushing off down the hallway.

All the letters bar one was addressed to her husband. Not surprising. She filtered her letter from his, stacking the others neatly back on the marble-topped table. The foyer was large but relatively empty, the staircase to the first floor lay against the right wall opposite the entrance and the hallway ran adjacent. Various rooms lined the hallway, including reception room, dining hall and study to name a few. At the far end of the hallway there was a plain, almost inconspicuous door which led down to the basement where the kitchen and servant quarters were housed. The estate was lavish, in line with its wealthy tenants, a sense of grandeur about the place. Their home was managed with the utmost care and a team of maids, menservants, cooks and host of others dutifully served the couple.

Darlene made her way up the staircase to her room. _Their_ room. If you could call it that. They shared one bedroom but it was the room they spent the least amount of time together which she was thankful for. She walked the hallway, passing the numerous guest rooms and bathrooms to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar and the smell of lavender tickled her sinuses to her delight. The maids' presence was evident from the newly made bed, dusted ornaments and fresh flowers on the bedside table. _Her_ bedside table. Charles loathed 'nature'. The furniture within the bedroom was rarely used, there was no need. They were merely for appearance. Two doors additional doors led from the bedroom, each to the pairs separate quarters.

Darlene travelled into her dressing room, and sat at her desk. She lit a whale oil lamp and proceeded to rummage through the draws for a paper knife.

"Milady?" the voice of one of her maids called from the bedroom. The woman sighed, tucking the letter into a drawer.

"Viola?" she replied to the sight of one of her maids at the bedroom door.

"Your supper is waiting for you-"

"I'm sorry, Viola, I think I'll retire for tonight, I'm exhausted."

"Oh…would you like me to draw you up a bath and ready your bed?"

She waved the maid off and retreated to her quarters. "No it's quite alright; I'll manage it myself for tonight. Tell the rest of the servants they have permission to finish early. The chores can wait till the morning."

"Very well milady. Goodnight," Viola smiled widely, leaving her lady for the night.


End file.
